The Need of a Century
by Dr Wattson
Summary: When the 10th Doctor decides to go on holiday, everything seems to fall apart. Non-relationship storyline, set after the 2008 Christmas Special. Mild language.
1. The Beginning

**[Author's Note: As this is my first fanfic and first time writing for an already existing being, please be kind! ******** Although I do enjoy a nice critique!]**

**ɸ The Beginning ɸ**

Press these buttons, pull that lever, jiggle that knob, and twist that wheel. _It really wasn't that complicated_, he thought. He never understood why all of his companions could never get the hang of it… well all except for Romana, and that was the only exception. She was an exception. And of course he did put a bit of show into it; pushing, pulling, wheeling, turning, flipping things that really weren't necessary and/or functional anymore. There seemed to be a lot of that now days. Too much show, too much flash and bang. It was really getting out of hand and he didn't quite know when to stop. Of course they delighted in it, the companions. They enjoyed the over-the-top performances he gave, and the even idea of doodad jiggery whatnots seemed to orgasm the most stiff-upper lipped.

He desperately needed air. He felt too poked, too prodded, too stretched, and too… well just too. He had set the destination for the best place when one starts to feel too too'd. His hands in the classic thinking man's position, he mused on.

He watched the console churn about in its labor, the centerpiece hard at work. He and the TARDIS were getting much too old for this. He'd been saying that for a couple of centuries now, and in time he was getting more and more morose. He didn't like it, not one bit, but even in that thinking made him gloomier. Time was marching on, and not as sedately as he remembered it, but going on at a faster pace. He would like to think it was because he was getting older, but knew deep down in his hearts that the real reason was that there were no Time Lords to keep track of it, to gently nudge it back into its place before real havoc occurred. That was the trouble with time. When not controlled, it was a force to be reckoned with, like a tiny stream of water being flooded with the ocean. It destroys, erodes, hides and reappears out of nowhere. Time as a renegade, a fugitive! The very idea would have offended The Council, to have time go willy-nilly about the place like a tramp. But now there was nothing, no Council, no Time Lords, no Gallifrey—just him.

Not even his companions stayed long now. Tourists! That's what most of them were. Go see the sights, see the danger, say ooh and ahh, take pictures, and then jump back on a boat home. He felt as if he was a tour guide to some awesome wonder that all the visitors could never notice or appreciate the full value. As soon as they catch a glimpse of it, they abandon ship or were taken away. Or maybe he was the sideshow. Maybe he was the circus freak in the box that the universe craves to see, and then refuses to pay the extra pound to hear what he has to say.

Just when he was about to enter some other profound, heartsrending thought, the TARDIS materialized. Rapheyon Delta: the ultimate solace planet. Or at least one of the Solace Planets in the mega chain that the Comfort Corp. had established in the past hundred years. He was taking a holiday.

**ɸ**

The boy lounged about on the hill, idly watching the grazing sheep. How he hated shepherding! So dull to watch stupid sheep mull about eating all day and then go and be stupid somewhere else on a different patch of land and eat there as well. Although it was better than one of them getting stuck in some odd place and having to rescue them, narrowly avoiding being kicked and bit to death. He loathed the smell and the noises they made—it grated on his senses like no other. He couldn't imagine why some would think that they were pristine white and were delicate like fluffy clouds on land. They smelled of old piss and were of the same color as well.

He twisted the grass with his fingers, uprooting some and throwing it in the strong wind. The sun beat down on the boy, taking away the harsh coldness the wind could sometimes inherit in the Delta Valley. The only noises were the wind whisking through the grass and the horrible sheep down below. But then again… something else happened. A noise he would never forget for the rest of his life occurred. It echoed about in the valley, back and forth, and the boy, not knowing where it was, was unprepared. Of course, as Mortimer stood, he would have never been prepared for what his eyes saw.

He would definitely get a lashing from his mum, he decided. Too much leisure and imagination and not enough hard work, she would say. When the apparition did not waiver, he ran home, gladly taking a beating for abandoning the flock because of some odd fantasy than to stay and see what would happen to the nasty sheep.

**ɸ**

Something was wrong. He could feel it. Something had happened in between stopping and materialization, but what he wasn't sure. He heard a rustling sound on the other side of the control center, yet no one appeared to be there.

"Hello?" asked The Doctor, "Anyone there?"

An answer was given, though not in a human dialect, as would befit this planet, and more rustling occurred from the other side. It was getting restless, whatever it was, and either that or it had ten legs.

"Maa-h!"

Puzzled, The Doctor crouched down and peered under the main console table. A sheep peered back at him. _Four legs,_ he corrected himself and grinned.

"Maaaaa-hh?!"

**ɸ**

"I had heard you saw an odd thing in the fields today, Mortimer?"

"Yes, sir" answered Mort dutifully to the village's highly respected magistrate. "Mum said it was 'cause I think too much and don't pay no mind to the sheep."

"Your mum's right," said the magistrate, ignoring the boy's lack of grammar etiquette. "A good and honest shepherd watches over his sheep like his own children. Where was your flock located this morning, boy?"

"Down by the stream wif the rocky bits innit and the two treefs wif one leanin over like it's tired an' asleepin." Mort purposefully lapsed into garbled toddler talk. His entire plan was to appear so childish that the magistrate would have to send someone to get the flock, in fear that the 'children' would be lost forever by the hands of some inept kid. He predicted an afternoon off, he hoped.

"Very well boy, run along and I'll see that your flock has not gone astray." The magistrate guided him to the side and sighed. Unknown to Mort, this reason was exactly what the magistrate wanted.

_Finally a good excuse! This child is obviously too young to tend to sheep, and luckily too young to have realized what actually occurred on the fields today. Whomever, or whatever_, he corrected himself, _had the gall to land a spaceship on a Class 18 Planet would be in so much court trouble, they'd have to not only hand over all their possessions but their lives as well. Possessions including that ship that evaded all our radar signals, warnings, and missile defense systems,_ he grimaced. Technology these days could do anything and it was getting harder and harder to stop raiding pirates and unwanted souls coming in contact with the Solace Planets.

He hoped, to whatever heavenly celestial body was in vogue at the moment, that this ship didn't carry any Sentient-ial Rights advocates. Purposefully keeping a planet in the dark was apparently against some hippies' ideals of living. Obviously these tecchies didn't realize that with more technology, the more overwhelmed and distraught a person becomes. The Comfort Corp. had created an ultimate getaway from technology! A recovery for the mind, body, and if applicable, soul.

As if he had already decided this would be a messy situation, he signaled for backup. Of course the village would be monitored by satellites; every precaution had to be made. Signaling was to be made by arm gestures and the vivacious technicians would interpret these waves and send out the message accordingly. If noticed by the natives, the stretching of one's arms would be the answer. The natives, who were not as idiotic as the corporation would believe, thought the magistrate peculiar with his complicated arm stretches. The magistrate, fluent in arm-ese, sent out a signal to command.

**ɸ**

The Doctor was trying to send the wayward sheep down the ramp and out through the doors, but the task was proving fruitless so far, as the sheep had other things to think about. Such as: Mmaaah?, Maah?, and the often thought MAAAAAAAH! Corralling the sheep, he tried coaxing it.

"There's plenty of nice green grass out there, my friend. Not that much in here, I'm afraid. Though it would be a nice sort of carpeting idea, very mod, but a bit too much needy and too much work to keep it satisfied. Hm. Sounds a bit like someone I knew once. Not the carpeting idea, that would be a bit messy, walking all over her and well... you get the point. HAyah! Comeon' you! Allonzay…. " He pushed it out the door despite its reluctance to leave.

The Doctor exited the TARDIS as well, and entered a field… of sheep. He was an island in a sea of sheep. Hundreds of them were mulling about the TARDIS and contentedly pulling up grass around him. A happily bubbling brook nearby caused the Doctor to pause and reflect for a moment.

"How… Quaint? I don't think I've ever used that word in my entire lives. Hm. Don't you find it confusing that the same word sheep is used for the plural of you as well?" He casually commented to a contented grazer, and began his wading through the tides of wool. "It could be disastrous, say a sheep farmer wants to sell his sheep, but the buyer doesn't know how many sheep he was buying. It could be just one sheep or it could be twenty sheep. And sheeps just doesn't soun---unf!"

This is where the Doctor was aptly tackled by a bunch of barrel-chested men clad in dark clothes.


	2. The Confrontation

**ɸ the confrontation ɸ**

"You could have said, Excuse me, do you mind coming with us?" the Doctor said to a nearby tackler as they bound him up. "Hello? What's your name? I'm the Doctor, by the way. I'd shake your hand but it seems that I'm tied up at the moment."

The man remained silent but another came forward. This man seemed more important than the others, but this was to be expected of someone who dressed as this. The people who dressed the silliest were the ones of highest stature, the Doctor reflected. They seemed to be attracted to the clothing that screams 'Hey! Look at me! I've got more frills on than you do!' The man seemed to have a limited color supply, ranging from beige to dark browns and a very tiny strips of red and violet, which were wrapped around his body in a hodgepodge put together way. All in all it was a very lovely… dress, The Doctor assumed. A mishmashed assembly of feathers poked out of the most random of places and gave him a very molted-bird feeling about him. He was armed to the teeth, literally. Dozens of teeth swathed around his robes, as if he felt as if he didn't have enough in his mouth.

"You must excuse my attire, Doctor….?"

"Just the Doctor."

"Right…right. My name is James St. John, and I am dressed as the Magistrate De'houn, of the nearby village which you appear to be trying to endanger."

"Me? Endanger? Never!"

"Why else would you ignore protocols? The warnings? Surely you must have heard them when entering the atmosphere." James retrieved a device from his inner robes. Pressing a button, his clothing seemed to shimmer and pulsate with a pixel-ish glow. The clothes were rearranging themselves!

"Oh that's much worse than before, now you just seem too… beaurocratic." The Doctor finished lamely as he watched the clothes rearrange into a very formal suit and tie. "What protocols?"

James eyed the blue box. "Obviously our devices aren't equipped to consider tinker toys as space ships," he casually commented.

"Hey! She does fine! It's what you do with the size that matters!" the Doctor said defensively.

"Open it up. Now." James commanded.

"No. There's no one else on board, you have my word."

"Your word means nothing to me, and I won't ask you again."

"Then you won't have to hear me refuse again."

James motioned to the sky. The TARDIS disappeared.

"Oh! Arm-ese! I haven't seen that in ages, let's see if I still remember how to…" The Doctor paused and remembered that his arms were tightly bound together behind his back. "Well, another time, another place. I don't suppose you could let me go and give her back? I'll be out of your merry way… no? I suppose not, it's never that simple. Look, I'm sure we can all talk this out peacef—"

The group of men disappeared as well, and Mort still could not believe his eyes.

**ɸ**

He was not a bad boy, despite whatever his mother chose to call him. Mort was suspicious about the way the magistrate was acting. Why not just send out an idle man from the village to get the sheep? What was so important that he had to go himself? Mort decided to tag along, at a distance of course.

Mort saw everything from behind the crest of the hill. From the man stepping out of the blue apparition he saw earlier to the odd changing of Magistrate De'houn and now, the disappearance of everyone. Except the sheep but who cares about the sheep? Men had miraculously appeared and then vanished again without moving! Perhaps they were ghosts of the afterlife? It was the act of the gods, and the magistrate was at the center of it, Mort was certain.

He ran down to the place where they last stood, and there was nothing. He wasn't expecting to find anything, but when men could do that, what else could happen? He turned around quickly when he heard a sudden intake of air, like someone taking a huge gasp of air suddenly. A man, clad in dark colors and with clothes he was not familiar with, stood there.

"You're in trouble, boy," he said, and as he reached out to grab Mort, everything went black.

**ɸ**

Prat Oleman pinched the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply. This one was getting on his nerves. It was in the way that the man sat, as if he had some faith left in this world. _There's not that many people in this universe that could sit there and not sweat._ _It's as almost as if I were the one being detained and questioned._ _I just hope to the gods that we didn't restrain a person of importance. _ "What were you doing there again?"

"I'm on holiday."

"Then why didn't you check in here at the station?" _There it was again, that look as if I'm the one that hasn't followed procedures._

"I didn't know you had to. I just decided to take a holiday, and did."

"Just like that? No booking? No calling? No Payments?"

"You say that as if a bad thing. Obviously spontaneity is the spice of one's life."

"Not here. There are no walk-ins. This is by appointment and only that if the person has been heavily and rigorously screened." _The charlatan! Whoever heard that spontaneity was anything BUT the spice of life?! It is the spice of frightening people who are unable to plan anything in advance._ "So what you are telling me is that you have no reservation to come here, yet you plopped right down on the planet expecting full service?"

"Full service? No. I had planned to see behind the scenes. See history. It's so much more exciting as present than to read about it in the books as past. What year is it by the way? "

_Clearly this man is making me a fool._ Prat covered his eyes with one hand and gestured for the guard with the other. "Take him away and put him back in his cell; I have no interest in talking with this man anymore. If St. John wants me to interview him, he'll have to do it himself."


	3. A Meeting with Death

**ɸ A Meeting with Death ɸ**

"He just went limp. Passed out from fear I suppose. What should I do with him?"

"He's much too young for total mind eradication; he'd either remember most of it, become a gibbering idiot, or even worse, both. We'll just have to confine him for now. Find a way to break him and then we'll just have another janitor on the station. Put him in the cell with the other one." James waved his hand at the guard holding the limp form of Mort and watched him drag the young child away.

He gripped onto the walls as he tried to suppress a wave of queasiness. That was the trouble with being topside most of the time. When coming back to the station, he always felt nauseous. The station was in space, with 5 disk layers connected by a spiraling pneumatic tube that ran along the outside. Each layer slowly rotated in the opposite way the one above it spun. This way, James liked to speculate, anyone not living on the station would feel permanent discomfort no matter what level they were on. Each layer had a different function: the bottom disk held the surveillance offices, security, the next the mess, entertainment and recreation halls, the middle held the main offices and the reception area, the second to the top held the dormitories for staff and customers alike, and the top held the viewing stations and learning centers.

James preferred to leave the top 3 floors alone, meeting the customers would come later, and he wanted as little of contact with them as possible. He was just glad he didn't have to train the idiots that came down to the planet to integrate for a while. He was disgusted with the way people thought that primitive was only having one large screen on the wall and that cameras were still in the digital era. In fact one such person had brought one with them down in the village! Hadn't security screened them profusely?

He quickly composed himself as much as he could and left in a hurry to get to the debriefing. The sooner he got that over with, the sooner he could be back on the sweet, solid ground. It was turning out to be a very busy day indeed.

**ɸ**

It wove between the lands of the Delta, quickly moving over the ground. It soared with the wings of the birds and swiftly ran with the foxes. It searched the land. To say that It searched visually would be inaccurate: It smelled. It was drawn to something similar, something invisible, and was forever searching for more. It smelled the fear, the depression, the desperation, and It was attracted to the stench**.**

A woman bent over and washed tunics in a small stream away from the village. She shrewdly wrung the clothes of extra water. She had felt the weight of a thousand years bearing down upon her, but she ignored it. She was quite familiar with the dull twinge, and the oppressive feeling; it had been there her entire life, but this time was different. The pain was neither dull nor a slight twinge, but a throbbing danger in her head pounded out each syllable over and over: Danger!

She looked up to the sky, white-eyed, and the soggy tunic dropped out of her hands as It swooped out of the sky. It feasted hungrily.

**ɸ**

Far away from the village, indeed almost half a continent away, the faintest noise could be heard, coming into existence.

_Plupt!_ And following quickly after a _**THWUMP.**_

**ɸ**

Mort awoke in a tiny room made out of a strange smooth, grey surface. He rubbed his eyes and inspected his surroundings, feeling everything. It was rather dark in the room, and after a while his eyes adjusted to the gloomy area.

There were the normal conveniences as one would expect to find in a cell: a toilet (though Mort had no conception of such a device) and washbasin, a serious looking door, and a low bench which ran along the sides of the room. It was this bench, though very narrow and wouldn't allow one to snooze comfortably, that Mort stared at the longest. There was a man, his hands folded behind his head, his back on the floor, and his legs resting on the top of the bench where one would normally sit. He was in a deep sleep, as he didn't move when Mort poked him with his big toe to make sure he was not a ghost as he previously thought. He seemed too real, too solid and out of place in this textureless room.

This was the man he saw assaulted and then disappeared with the other wasn't sure of where he was, but he knew he was in a place that he shouldn't be. He felt as if an antagonizing monster was looming over his shoulder, disapproving greatly of his being there. He turned to the door and inspected it. It was made of a shiny material and had no abrasions in it smooth surface. _It was like a looking glass the shaman had in his hut back at the village, only much, much larger,_ Mort thought as he felt the surface. _Even if that twiggy man had the strength, there isn't anything to hold onto._

"There's no budging it. It's even deadlocked," a voice from behind spoke. "They've thought of everything… well, almost everything anyways."

Mort turned around in surprise and noticed that the man had not moved, but his eyes were open and staring at the ceiling.

"…does that mean you can get us out of here?"

"Of course. There's always a way out if you look hard enough. I haven't yet because I'm on holiday, time to take a break from time. Huh. Ironic." The man trailed off looking at Mort for the first time, and obviously surprised to see what he was talking to. The man removed his legs from the wall and sat up with his legs crossed, facing Mort. "How old are you?"

"Twelve."

"Ah, twelve. Nice age. A very even and decisive number twelve is. I'm the Doctor, though I won't try to make you take nasty medicines as I'm not that type of doctor!" The Doctor extended his hand.

"Mort," said Mort, confused with the hand as well as the reference of taking medicine and doctors. "Are there different types of you?"

"Oh yes, and you're very lucky to be in the same cell as me, Mort. Hm, Short for Mortimer, I assume. Well I don't normally like ideas named Mortimer*, but I suppose I could make an exception with you," he chatted comradely and slowly withdrew his hand.

"Are you an idea? Are you real? I mean, people don't vanish instantly." Mort felt his courage coming back to him. The presence of the looming pressure over his head seemed to be waning as this man talked to him. "And I'm most certainly not an idea."

"I suppose I'm real. I'm real to me, is that good enough? Didn't I seem real when you poked me earlier?"

Mort shrugged. "I've not seen many things that seem real today; men disappearing, blue phantoms appearing out of thin air and then vanishing again. Right now I don't think I have the ability to judge if things are real or not."

"You're quite articulate for a twelve year old boy."

"I've talked to the Outsiders." Mort stated this as proudly as he could. "Most in my village do not get the chance to."

"And why is that?"

"We are forbidden to talk to them without the magistrate present, though I do. Once an Outsider handed me this." Mort reached into a pouch that was slung over his grubby tunic, revealing an equally shabby book.

The Doctor took the book from Mort's offering hands and put his glasses on. After carefully examining the worn cover, the Doctor flipped through the pages, stopping every so often to stare at a page with apprehensive eyes. The book was a thin manuscript that appeared to be an introductory course to the Solace Planets.

"What happened to the last half of this?" The Doctor asked as he turned to the back of the manuscript that only showed the jagged fragments of former pages.

"He said something about a loo. Is that a type of bird? Perhaps it took the papers?" Mort pondered.

They were interrupted by a guard opening the door. The Doctor deftly put the book into his jacket as another guard hustled in. He grabbed the Doctor by the arm and hastily hauled him up.

"Who, me?" The Doctor innocently said while curiously looking at the man as he was shoved out of the cell.


	4. Time for a Change

**ɸ Time for a Change ɸ**

It hungered like no other: It was a bottomless gorge that would never be satisfied. It has tasted its first life: It felt the despair, the anger, the suppression and It greedily lusted for more. It stalked the highlands of the Delta, making sheep scatter, trees tremble and the grass wilt around It. It felt free, a concept that would have been lost on It before. Since the dawn of time, it understood for the first time. And now It wanted to learn more.

**ɸ**

_Plupt!_ _**THWUMP.**_

**ɸ**

James St. John pointed an accusing finger at the Doctor. "What did you do?"

"When?" The Doctor bewilderedly replied as he was hustled into the room between two husky guards before James St. John.

They stood in the Observation Center, on the bottom disk of the station. In the center of the room were a circle of desks, with high tech equipment and screens showing multiple views of the landscape. Technicians were buzzing around the desks, like a hive of bees being disturbed. The floor was completely transparent, and the planet below could be seen. James silently pointed his other hand towards the observation screens behind him.

The Doctor, escaping his guards for a moment, promptly squeezed between two arguing technicians and examined the image on the screen.

"This is a current satellite image?" he asked, taking off his glasses, wiping them with his sleeve, and replacing them.

"Yes. What exactly is it?" A scrawny rat-like technician answered near the Doctor's left elbow.

"… Impossible, that's what it is." Peering closer to the image he leaned over the keyboard and swiftly began imputing data into the terminal.

"Ggnnnh!" The technician implored to James. The grunt was answered by the two guards, dragging the Doctor away who fought like mad to stay.

"Look here, I'm only trying to help!" The Doctor protested. "That should not be there! That shouldn't even exist anymore!" He looked at James who had a smug look on his face. "You knew this would happen, didn't you? You just wanted someone to blame! Look, whatever you're doing to change time, stop. I don't care what you're doing or how you're doing it, but I know that you are, so stop. You don't know what you're getting into."

James idly glanced at the Doctor. "So why don't you stop me, Doctor?"

"I'm on holiday." The Doctor firmly stated. "I'm tired of getting in the way and getting hurt. I'm tired of being the only one to do the right thing. It's time for a change."

"Tired of getting in the way? I've got the perfect place for you." James motioned to the guards, "Take him to his lovely cell."

**ɸ**

**Excerpt from**_"Introduction to the Solace Planets: Rapheyon Delta"_

_**Introduction:Onboard the Alexander, About Rapheyon Delta**_

_**Chapter 1: Training: Preparation **_

_**Chapter 2:Screening: What not to take **_

_**Chapter 3:On the Planet: Your role**_

_**Chapter 4: Indigenous Life forms and your Health**_

_**Chapter 5:A Primitive's View**_

_**Chapter 6:How it's Possible**_

"_Welcome, distinguished Sentient to the Rapheyon Delta's finest and only space station, Alexander mark 2! It is here where you will embark on your exciting 2 week vacation! The Alexander has the latest up-to-date technology and will accommodate any need you wish. A full court sporting center, movie and theater, and shopping centers all await you! After a brief training and screening session, you will be taken to the beautiful and luscious planet below: Rapheyon Delta! There you will intermingle with the natives and observe their easy, primitive lives. Be prepared to be shocked! These primitives are indeed prehistoric! Communication is possible with our finest staff member, who is fluent in many languages and can facilitate your conversations with the natives. After meeting, you will be transported back to your luxurious rooms back on The Alexander to have the best night sleep possible! After visiting, please reflect how blessed we are to be so mighty and how privileged we are to be so. Surely this will not be a vacation to be missed!_

_-Danis Crocleer_

_Co-President of the Comfort Corporation_

**ɸ**

The heavy pressure was once again felt by Mort. It slowly returned after the men had taken the Doctor away, and it was building fast. He clutched his head as he felt the back of his neck tighten. The feeling of his brain burning was intense, and Mort thought his head would burst in two and it would slosh out, boiling. He dropped to his knees, his fingers splayed through his unkempt hair as he tightly grasped his head, as if trying to keep his head from splitting. In mid-scream, a guard entered and deftly knocked him out.

**ɸ**


	5. Saint John and the dragon

**ɸ Saint John and the Dragon ɸ**

Twenty-Five miles due west of the Delta Tribal community, the sound was heard again.

Plupht! **THWUMP**. _Whooosh!_

But this time, another sound followed, and it was louder by tenfold of any noise heard before.

. A primal roar echoed in the valley.

**ɸ**

James stood on the transporter, ready to be teleported back to the planet. He was restless; if he wasn't careful then the Delta tribe would start to worry about his absence. In a way, he liked the way that the people idolized him, in a patriarchal way, like he was watching over them like a godlike father figure. They respected him in ways that the Corporation, or the other staff members and customers on the Alexander never would. When going back to the planet, he always felt like he was returning home, as if he was a returning king to his throne. Other times, (often when he was being irritated) he had the impression that he was the ever watchful owner of an un-house broken, squeamish dog that needed constant care.

In an instant he was back on solid ground. Hopefully he won't have to go upstairs again soon. He had changed back into his ceremonial robes and began preparing mentally of the things he had to get ready for tonight's Feast of a Thousand Moons, which came every month, but as ceremonies goes it was vitally important to the community as a whole to continue and occur flawlessly. _Gods help me if I get it wrong. Everything will come crashing down and we'll have to start again on another planet. Hopefully nothing major will happen during the ritual tonight. With the way that things are going today, I do not doubt that something awful will happen that will fuck us up in the end. _James mentally made note to have more natives guarding the village tonight. With so many things to get ready, he had no time to dawdle. Preoccupied and flustered, James St John failed to notice that he had walked right into the path of a bulky, seething dragon.

**ɸ**

The rat-like technician turned back to the screen after the guards had pried the impulsive man away from his precious terminal and after he had sent James St. John to the surface. The hubbub around the screen had died down as the other technicians went back to their own stations to pull up the data and silently come up with ideas that they surmised would be great chit-chat around the water cooler. And so the rattish technician, Wally, was completely alone when he looked at the unfinished code the man had inputted. Thinking that the man had just randomly started typing nonsense he first had dismissed it as insensible, but when looking at it the second time, something began to bother him.

_This code… I know it from somewhere, _thinking further, he saw a faint glimmer of recognition in the murky depths of his memory. _It's the beginning of the Saturnalian Theory! _He finished the unfinished code and looked at the data. _It actually makes sense in this circumstance? This is impossibility at work! _

He gleefully called several colleagues over and enthusiastically pointed at the code. They too went into a hushed silence, which was quickly changed to a clamorous shouting match. Wally, in the midst of it all, reflected on what this situation meant. The Saturnalian Theory wasn't supposed to make sense. It never made sense, no matter what situation it was put in. It was reliably preposterous. It was commonly joked about being so absurd. If it was suddenly making sense anything could happen, literally. Wally gnawed on the tips of his bony fingers and looked on the planet surface where James St. John had previously teleported.

**ɸ**

Imagine this:

Imagine an angry dragon, bewildered, starving and discontented, suddenly dropped out of the sky, smashing down in a strange place it had never been before. In a place it had never felt the strange suns that were beaming down rays of heat upon it's scales or the soft, zephyr of a wind twirling dead leaves about it's gargantuan claws. Imagine it rousing and taking flight; it's large and almost translucent wings spread far, reaching for either horizon. Imagine the dragon swooping along the landscape and then, when soaring high above, sighting a creature below and the dragon circles. Imagine the dragon landing in front of it in silence; the centuries of natural selection and evolution developed into this being, which caused nothing to be heard when it's over sized body landed on the ground. Imagine a man walking straight at the beast, oblivious with his mind on other things. Imagine the surprise of the man when he lifts his head and notices it for the first time. Imagine the dragon blasting a guttural roar into his face; the sticky moist air from the dragon's lungs, the decaying stench along with the strength of the mighty gust knocks the man over. Imagine his face as he desperately and futilely crawls backward to escape, his impending doom inevitable and his face shows that he knows it. Imagine the dragon, straining it's thick neck forward, overtop of the man, jaws wide and anticipating for the meal that is close at hand. Imagine the man screaming for his life, his back against the ground and his arms up in defense, although imagine how little this would effect his fateful demise. Now imagine the dragon's astonishment as it snapped it's jaws shut on empty air.

**ɸ**

As the Doctor was forcibly pushed back into his cell, he stumbled and almost lost his balance. He mumbled some words as he straightened his jacket and strode over to the side of the cramped room and sat down on the narrow bench that ran along the wall. Mort appeared to be sleeping curled in the fetal position in the middle of the room with his back closest to the Doctor.

_The Tower of Rassilon! How could it be? Gallifrey is gone, so how is it here?_ The tower was one of the Symbols of Gallifrey, and would have been considered a tourist trap, if tourists were allowed on the planet. It signified the commitment of the Time Lords to protect and overlook time. _The Time War took Gallifrey and everything on it out of time itself. It couldn't be the original; someone must have built a copy, but why? And who would have had the schematics to build it? _The Doctor pulled out the manuscript from an inside pocket and examined it again, hoping to find some clue to why the tower was there. After a while, he raised his eyes and peered over the manuscript to look at Mort, who hadn't moved. _Something isn't right._ The Doctor stood up, putting the manuscript on the bench and squatted next to Mort's motionless body. As he pulled Mort's shoulder closer to him, the torso twisted and the head lolled towards the Doctor lifelessly. _This is not Mort! _He lifted the eyelids of the stranger and shone the sonic screwdriver into the eyes, which made the eyes dilate. _Still alive. _The Doctor then stood up with the body in front of him, which was still in the awkward position. He faintly resembled Mort in the face, but the proportions were wrong for a 12 year old boy. He stretched out the legs so that the whole body was lying flat. The legs were too long, the arms too lanky. The clothes were way too small for the body; the shirt didn't even come close to the waistline, and the pants were now long shorts. Whoever it was that was laying here on the floor was a very different person who was in the room when the Doctor left. Whoever it was, the Doctor decided, was not going to wake up very soon. He returned to bench and leafed through the manuscript's thin pages absentmindedly, as he knew that the pages he really wanted were the ones that were missing in the back.

**ɸ**

"What the **hell** was that?" James yelled at the technician. He was lying down on the floor as he had been before Wally had teleported him back up to the station in the nick of time. "Didn't you check to see if I was going to land near a huge fuck-off monster that tried to eat me?"

Wally had his head down; he shuffled his feet and mumbled something about it not being on the screen at the time of teleporting James. _Not a slight 'Thank you for saving my life, Wally, I really appreciate it.' I should have left him there in that thing's mercy._

James looked at his disheveled suit. The magistrate costume only worked on the planet. He stood up and the urine stain on his pantsuit was very apparent, as well as the large stain on the other side. He eyed the technicians that were in the room, as if challenging them to say anything about it.

"You owe me a new suit. Get me something to wear." He demanded to Wally, who rushed off in a hurry. James stormed off to his office where he could hide until clean clothes appeared.

Five minutes later, a scavenged suit appeared at his door along with a frantic Wally. James cracked open the office door, grabbed the items from Wally's offering hands, waved him off and changed into drier clothes. He exited his office, and absentmindedly tugged at the ends of the sleeves.

"Definitely not my color, but it will have to do for the moment." He commented. He always felt that a white suit was very tacky, and that only a dark colored suit would make one look professional. "Get me the Doctor!" he yelled at the nearest person he could find and watched in satisfaction as that person skidded off to find a guard to relay the order to. With a monster on the loose James would have to find a way to get around it. If the Doctor was as bright as he talked, he could find a way to get rid of it. If not, the Doctor could prove as a useful distraction as live bait. _Either way,_ he smiled, _I win._

**ɸ**


	6. Around the Mulberry Bush

**ɸ Around the Mulberry Bush and Back ɸ**

**Excerpt from**_"Introduction to the Solace Planets: Rapheyon Delta"_

_Because of the lack of technology and intelligence on Rapheyon Delta, all guests are to take a mandatory introductory training class. The class will prepare you mentally and physically for the different lifestyles and customs of the Rapheyonites, as well as the different terrains that will appear on the planet. The training class will also cover what to do in certain situations with the tribal members and what not to do while you're on the planet. The Commandments of the Comfort Planets, as provided in this booklet, should always be adhered to. Fine details will be covered later in the class._

_The Commandments of the Comfort Planets:_

_Always follow the Commandments._

_Do not bring anything with you._

_Appropriate clothing for you will be provided, do not bring your own._

_Do not initiate communication with primitives without the tribe's magistrate._

_Do not offer religious/philosophical ideas._

_Do not talk about the weather._

_Do not use sarcasm._

_Do not give gifts to the primitives._

_Do not accept gifts from the primitives._

_Do not touch the primitives._

_Do not go into primitives' huts, unless guided there by the magistrate._

_Do not wander away from the village until appropriate departure time._

_Do not use obscene hand gestures._

… _[the list goes on for several pages]…_

_248. Do not feed the primitives._

_249. Do not accept food from primitives._

_250. Do not feed the livestock._

_251. Do not eat the livestock._

_252. Do not kick the livestock._

… _[a hand written entry] 252 ½. Unless the livestock kicks you._

_253. Do not take anything from the planet back with you._

…_[254. has been crossed out to the point of illegibility] _

_255. The Magistrate is Law._

_... [a hand written entry] 256. Do not piss off the magistrate._

**ɸ**

In the middle of a rock formation on another continent of the Rapheyon Delta,

Plupt! **Thumpt! **

_**Tww-woiiiing-wong-wong**_, a metal hubcap spirals around and around, making the metallic ringing noise as round metal objects are apt to do.

**ɸ**

The Time Lord leaned against the wall, looking at the ceiling in the cell he was getting very familiar to know. _If my hypothesis is correct, more things will come hurtling back. Perhaps something decidedly dreadful. Then they'll come and get me again, yelling, demanding, that's how it always goes, and then probably a threat on my life or a ritual sacrifice is in order. Although, with this bunch, they'll most likely just shove me back in here. They don't know what to do with me, _he grinned to himself in a lackluster way. _In, out, back in, and then out, and then forced in again. I feel like an overused Jack-in-the-Box. Doc-inna-Box. Hum. If she were here, she'd say something sarcastically witty, or at least try to be witty, in comparing the TARDIS to a clown-holding box, which would make me the clown. Or she'd be whining about being in a cell. Though I'd definitely would have escaped by now… not much initiative now that there isn't someone complaining in my ear to do something about it. _The body that lay in the middle of the room moved slightly, but the Doctor failed to notice, being lost in thought. _Never liked the sound those boxes made, though. What was it? ... 'Pop goes the mongoose?' or something like that. You'd always slow down at the end, dreading when it would come hurtling out of the box. No matter how many times you'd do it, it scared the draknas out of you._ The figure sat up, rubbed its eyes, and stretched its arms.

"Hullo, Doctor," it said.

The Doctor dropped his gaze from the ceiling and looked down at the boy. "Yes… uh, hello!" he stumbled, obviously confused on how the boy already knew who he was. He certainly wasn't Mort; he was too old. "uhm… Have we met?"

The boy was obviously offended, "Mort, remember? We talked not less than an hour ago. You asked me how old I was."

"Right… right. Sorry." The Doctor rifled his hand through his hair as he pondered the possibilities. Certainly he had seen stranger things than rapid aging. "What's your answer?"

"Then? 12. Now, 17. I always age before everyone else in my village; I was born slightly before the feast." Mort stood up, slightly shaky because he was not used to being taller.

"And what feast would that be?" The Doctor asked, milking as much facts as he could from Mort.

"The Feast of a Thousand Moons," Mort paused, "shouldn't you already know this?"

"I-Ah, I probably do, but those people out there," he gestured to the door, "knocked me around and I can't remember a darn thing." He knocked a fist up against his head as he outrageously fibbed. He had the feeling that Mort wouldn't be as talkative if he knew that the person he was talking to was of a different species, not to mention timeline and galaxy. "How often is this party?"

"Oh, well it comes every year, right around the time of the spring equinox of our Sol 1," Mort informed him. "Sol 1 is the slightly reddish one that crosses over Sol 3, the yellow-er sun, and Sol 2 is a blue tinged one that is only seen every 15 years. My grandparents were the last ones in my family to see it. The feast is apart of our ageless culture, everyone is born during this time, except for a few like me."

"Ageless culture? Hm." _Not quite. _The Doctor mulled over the facts in his mind. _Rapid aging, items appearing from outside of time and space…, which leaves it with, let's see… … Rapimenosial Anositiscm? _"Ohh, it can't be! For your sake I hope not," he talked to himself and scratched his jutted out chin. "Where could they have gotten that technology? That shouldn't be around in this galaxy for… quite a while… Something is decidedly wonky here."

Mort looked at the Doctor with glazed eyes. "Don't you think we should try to get out of here?" he ventured, after he thought the Doctor was done with his personal conversation.

"What? Oh, yes, in due time. I think we'll be seeing another guard whisking me away promptly to people in charge, demanding to know what's going on, implying that I'm the one that's done it, et cetera. " The Doctor was suddenly lackluster and void of his normal spunk, the previous conviction gone from his voice. Mort noticed the instant change in the Doctor's voice, but decided not to comment on it. The Doctor sat heavily down on the bench, "People like them always do the same thing, every time. It's so predictable. For once, just once, I'd like to be wrong about something."

Just as the Doctor predicted, soon after, a guard came. The Doctor looked up in un-anticipation, "Where am I off to now? Someone see something they shouldn't have? Someone need a Doctor?" The guard grunted impassively and took him by the arm. Groaning, the Doctor obeyed. At the door, he half turned to Mort, "Don't get any older," and left the cell.

**ɸ**

James St. John stood in front of the large window overlooking the planet with his arms crossed in disapproval. A squat, fat man with thinning hair and impish eyes stood beside him, clasping his hands behind his back, which was a terrible strain on his tragically short arms. To say that the man had a wide waist would be an understatement; the man had an equatorial beltline. The vast differences between the two are unfortunate and comically obvious. The tall and thin James turned his head to look at the squat man who continued to look out the window. James sighed and looked back through the plasmaglass at the seemingly peaceful planet. James knew better; the planet below was all but tranquil.

"Are you sure it's five?" James casually commented to the man. He did not need an answer for he knew he would not make such a disastrous folly.

The man casually glanced at James with a broad grin that folded his face into a ripple of creases; if his face was terrain it would be a mountain chain. "That'd the third time you're arsked me that." The man's complicated thick accent caused havoc with the grammar system of the New Plutonian language. "Yer 'orrible with the small talk, ain't che'? Yers, I'm shure that it's up to five."

"Alas this is so, dear Hugo." James unfolded an arm to clap the man on the back. "I'm afraid I'm terrible with idle chit-chat. Do you plan on attending the second interrogation?"

"Down ta' business alreddy ar' we? Yers, I'll be thare, Jamesie-boy, I'll be thare." James detested the nickname Hugo had abruptly given him 3 years ago, but to tell him that would be like kicking a puppy. "Thare'll be no need of fear from that ravin' lunatic when I'm thare, eh? Tho I dont think that I'll be able ta tell ya two apart!" Hugo nudged James in the ribs jovially with his plump elbow. James normally would have feigned laughter, to keep him in good humor, but with everything that had happened recently he couldn't seem to muster up even a smirk.

"Oh, yer in a foul mood this evening, Jamesie-boy, ain't che? That'd ol dragon et yer sense o' humor, didjit? It musta still be starving!"

James pinched the bridge of his nose as Hugo continued jabbing him in the side with his elbow. "Y-yes. I've got to prepare." He quickly glanced at his wristwatch and left Hugo jiggling with mirth by the window. Hugo abruptly stopped laughing as soon as James was out of sight. His jovial face creased back into an impudent frown.

"Oh, you don't know what's in store for you, you unlucky bastard." His thick accent completely vanished.

**ɸɸ**


End file.
